“Am I being arrested?” the druid asked the old rider who stood watch. There was reluctance pooled in the muscles of his jaw, which he worked into a grind.
“That is far from your sentence,” he muttered irritably. “You will be brought to Rhyd-hal, and the king will make of you.”
“What is the crime?” bellowed the farmer.
They gave no answer.
The druid was escorted towards the empty carrach, and silently, he stepped up. The moment his feet left the comfort of soil, he was reminded of that dark vision. The dread he’d felt, gone quiet in the light, rekindled, if only for the briefest moment. His eyes fixed upon an unfamiliar horizon, and the burden of a world unknown.
The rider came to his side, and the druid looked up at him from his cart. “If you should tell me I would be killed, I would ask you do it here, out in the untamed lands. Allow me the green grave promised to all my kin.”
“It is not my place to decide your fate. Your name was spoken by gods.”
“You know we do not share gods, Rider. I do not hearken the words of the false.”
The rider shook his head. “The words are sacred, whether you hear them or nae, and I must abide them to whatever end. I am but a man, woodkin. And you are Chosen of the Moon.”
Chapter three
Rhyd-hal
Rhyd-hal.
Skyre had heard of it in Medhin’s stories. The ones she’d told him since he was small.
“…and you’ll come to it, aside the sea. All your power will make home there.”
“And I’ll have feasts?”he asked, not more than a boy, clutched between her arms.
“Yes, many feasts. You’ll feast into the night, and come morning, feast again.”
“And all my friends will come?”
“All the kingdom will come,”she’d say.“From far and wide to see their king. The king who will never die.”
But when he arrived, there was no feast, nor a hundred smiling friends. The throne was not golden and the castle did not glitter.
It stunk of goat and piss.
Skyre stared. “I thought it would be… bigger.”
Greyv chuckled from the doorway, sinking his teeth into an apple. It came away with a crisp snap. “The rooms had to be small so they might fit so many. Where else would you put all these stinking men?” His dimples sank when he smiled honestly. Skyre appreciated that.
But Skyre wasn’t smiling.
The three men stood in the king’s fresh quarters. Thoughfreshwas not a word that suited Rhyd-hal. Skyre tossed his mantle to the bed and faced his chamberlain. “Surely there’s somewhere better?”
“It’s only temporary, my Vaich. Your permanent quarters will be ready within the week, once the airing has finished.”
“Be lucky old Lach’Dun went quiet in his sleep,” said Greyv. “Spares shoveling shit off the floor.”
“It cannae smellthatbad.”
Greyv smirked. “Still a dead man’s bed.”
Skyre released a heavy breath. “Go on, then. You’re excused… or what have you.”
“Ah, what of dinner, sire?” asked the chamberlain.
